


Còmhla

by Saras_Girl



Series: Foundations!verse [13]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3516020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a bright, cold winter morning, and the perfect time for Harry and Draco to try on some new traditions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Còmhla

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've been promising a new Foundations!verse story for AGES now but kept getting distracted. Well, this week I was inspired and here it is – a sort of sexy-fluff-comedy thing. I don't know how to describe it. It's just a little slice of Foundations, I suppose. Please enjoy.
> 
> For Leia, my wonderful new friend. Thank you for all your beautiful DIY Harrys and Dracos <3

Harry stands at his bedroom window, cradling his steaming cup of coffee and gazing down contentedly over Grimmauld Place. The last of the sunrise bleeds across the pale blue sky and sparkles delicately against the frost that covers every surface, and the sight of it pulls Harry’s mouth into a little smile. It couldn’t be a better day for a winter wedding.  
  
He darts a furtive glance behind him, and, finding the coast clear, pushes the window open with a creak and inhales the sharp, crisp air. When an icy breeze cuts across his bare chest, he shivers, but the window remains open and he grips his hot cup more tightly as the stuffy room is filled with the clean scent of the early December morning. He can hear Draco rattling around in the kitchen two floors below and smell the warm aroma of toast and bacon that lingers from their early breakfast, and he glances at the clock, wondering how long it will be until he is prodded into the shower and whether or not he will be able to persuade Draco to join him.  
  
After all, they have plenty of time. The ceremony doesn’t start until midday, it is barely eight thirty and they have somehow managed breakfast, several firecalls regarding travel arrangements and a protracted discussion with a very petulant cupboard about weddings, why Clive is unavailable for conversation despite it being a Saturday morning, and why kitchen fittings are not generally invited to formal events.  
  
“As soon as I find that Spellotape, I’m going to fasten you shut,” Draco shouts above a flurry of flaps and creaks, and something in the harassed tone of his voice makes Harry pull the window closed again.  
  
Draining his cup, he sits on the edge of the bed and scrubs his fingers through his hair. With a secret little thrill of excitement, he flops backwards onto the crumpled sheets and gazes at his outfit for today, hanging neatly on its special hanger over the wardrobe door next to Draco’s. Having been painstakingly fitted and tailored months before, the garments had finally arrived the previous morning on the arm of a flustered young girl who had blushed at the sight of Harry and handed them over without a word, and he has been quietly admiring them ever since. Every item has been beautifully pressed, brushed spotless, and smells absolutely amazing. The blacks and whites are crisp and the blues and greens rich without being too bright for Draco’s sensitive eyes, and speaking of Draco… they had been fitted separately and now Harry can’t quite wait to see him in all his finery.  
  
Grinning, he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift. When he opens them again, Draco is standing in the doorway, arms folded and expression vaguely mutinous. He is also shirtless and covered in water, but something in his eyes warns Harry not to ask what has happened.  
  
“Everything okay?” he tries instead, levering himself up on his elbows.  
  
“I don’t think I can do it,” Draco sighs.  
  
Harry frowns, sitting up and attempting to ignore the flare of panic in his stomach. “Do what, exactly?”  
  
“This,” Draco repeats, striding across the room and unhooking his wedding outfit. He holds it out and stares at it critically. “I don’t think I can wear this.”  
  
Harry blinks. “What? Why not?”  
  
Draco says nothing for a moment, merely regarding himself and the outfit in the mirror with a mixture of distaste and terror. He sighs heavily and turns to Harry.  
  
“It’s alright for you. You could wear anything and everyone would say you looked brilliant.”  
  
Harry opens his mouth to protest but Draco presses on.  
  
“You know what it’s going to be, don’t you? Tomorrow there will be pictures in the _Prophet_ and they’ll say, ‘Harry Potter looked wonderful and Draco Malfoy was, for some reason, wearing a skirt’.”  
  
“It’s not a skirt,” Harry points out, but Draco doesn’t seem to hear him.  
  
“I realise that I should be far beyond caring about that rag by now but honestly, Harry, it’s just going to be embarrassing.” Draco hangs the offending outfit back up and drops down onto the bed. “Maybe I should just stay here.”  
  
“Don’t you dare,” Harry says fiercely. “She will have a fucking shit fit and you know she will. You are going, and that’s all there is to it. There’s nothing wrong with your outfit. It’s very nice.”  
  
“It’s a skirt.”  
  
“It is a kilt, Draco, not a skirt,” Harry sighs. “And believe me, it could have been a lot worse.”  
  
Draco lifts a dubious eyebrow but says nothing. Harry leans over to his bedside cabinet and retrieves a napkin on which the bride has sketched an oddly-shaped little man wearing a kilt stretching almost to the ground, bulky and bunched with a vast swathe of fabric flung over one shoulder and pinned there.  
  
“You see? We were talking just the other day about how her mother tried to insist that if she was having kilts instead of robes, she had to have the traditional full-length ones,” Harry explains, watching Draco’s eyes widen as he takes the napkin. “Luckily for us, she’s far too stubborn for that.”  
  
“This one actually looks less like a skirt,” Draco says, and Harry elbows him in the ribs.  
  
“Fuck off. Anyway, what’s so terrible about wearing a skirt?”  
  
  
Draco looks at him sharply. “Nothing,” he says, lifting his chin and folding his arms again. “I just… well, I don’t have the legs for it.”  
  
Harry laughs. He can’t help it. It just slips out, and now Draco is looking at him as though carefully saving up the insult in his wet-fish hex bank for the next time he has his wand to hand.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Harry says solemnly, fighting down a smile.  
  
  
“You will be,” Draco mutters, turning his disdain back on the kilt. “And the socks are very odd.”  
  
“I’ll give you the socks,” Harry concedes. “But it would look odder without them. You have to wear the whole thing, that’s the point. You’ve got to have the socks and the funny brogues and the sporran and all that stuff. It’s tradition.”  
  
Draco picks irritably at the worn strip of leather around his wrist. “She’s not even Scottish.”  
  
“Her family is, though,” Harry says, automatically glancing around as though the bride herself might somehow be listening in on their conversation. She has hardly been what Hermione refers to as a ‘bridezilla’, but she has been very insistent on a couple of things, one of which has been the salute to her family heritage, which has made its way into the formal-wear of everyone in the wedding party. Fortunately, Harry thinks, the Mackenzie tartan is understated and beautiful, with soft blues and greens and the occasional striking flash of white, and, by some miracle, it suits everyone.  
  
“Hmm,” Draco says, apparently unmoved. “Scottish people wear suits, too, don’t they? Or dress robes, even?”  
  
“…which are quite skirty, aren’t they, when you think about it?” Harry says under his breath.  
  
“Look… if I turned up wearing dress robes, nobody would be staring at my calves and comparing them with bloody Jonquil’s,” Draco says crossly, and it takes everything Harry has not to smile.  
  
“Is that what this is about?” he asks, reaching out and closing his fingers around Draco’s wrist, pulling at it and forcing Draco to turn and face him. “You think Cecile’s enormous hulk of a brother is going to look better in his kilt than you?”  
  
Draco scowls and flushes slightly. “Well, have you seen him? He’s about seven feet tall. His biceps are the size of my head.”  
  
Harry snorts. “Yes, I’ve seen him, and he’ll probably look amazing, if you’re into… that sort of thing. Which I hope that after six years together, you know I’m not.”  
  
Slowly, grey eyes lift to meet his. “I should hope not,” Draco says, but his fingers curl around Harry’s and grip hard enough to hurt.  
  
“Yes,” Harry says simply, heart leaping at the smile that flickers across Draco’s lips just before he leans in and kisses him.  
  
  
Draco’s mouth is warm against his, familiar enough to wrap him in contentment but still thrilling enough to send a hot, aching spiral down through his chest and stomach. Lifting his free hand, Harry threads his fingers through Draco’s hair and then trails them down over the much-loved lines of angular shoulders and graceful spine, feeling Draco’s breath catch against his lips and smiling to himself as an interesting idea begins to settle into focus.  
After all, they still have plenty of time—perhaps just long enough to make Draco appreciate his kilt.  
  
Without warning, and with the expertise borne of ‘persuading’ potion-addled patients out of the corridors and back into bed without hurting them, Harry grabs Draco firmly but gently, one hand on his elbow and the other at the small of his back, and manoeuvres him into a sprawled-out position on the bed.  
  
“I’m not one of your mad people,” Draco protests, but he remains in place, choosing to merely watch with curiosity as Harry tugs off his pyjama bottoms and scrambles for the wardrobe.  
  
“I think we both know that’s debatable,” Harry says, carefully separating the outfit into its many constituent parts and laying them out around Draco on the sheets.  
  
With a half-hearted glare, Draco folds his arms over his naked chest. Harry grins.  
  
“Do you want to know a secret?” Harry asks, kneeling on the bed and pulling one of Draco’s icy feet onto his thigh. The contact makes him shiver and, for a brief and pointless moment, makes him wonder why he’s wearing nothing but boxer shorts in the middle of winter. Again.  
  
“Always,” Draco says, eyes warming just a fraction.  
  
“Good,” Harry says, stroking fingertips over Draco’s ankle. “Here it is, then: I have been looking forward to seeing you in this stuff ever since I found out we were wearing it.” He looks at Draco sternly and indicates the various bits of finery on the bed. “You know why? Because I think you’re going to look so fucking hot in it that I’m going to want to find a quiet little place somewhere during the wedding and fuck you senseless.”  
  
Draco’s eyes darken and he uncrosses his arms, stretching them out at his sides and exposing the shock of dark lines against pale skin that still leaves Harry breathless and overheated after all this time.  
  
“There will be plenty of quiet little places,” he says airily. “It’s a castle.”  
  
Harry grins, already half-hard at the thought. “Probably not _during_ the wedding though.”  
  
Draco lets out a rather regretful sigh. “Probably not.”  
  
“The point is,” Harry says, picking up one of the long charcoal grey socks and easing it over Draco’s foot, “you are going to look incredible. Let’s face it… you always do.”  
  
Draco snorts but remains still and unusually compliant as Harry gently tugs the sock up to his knee and then repeats the process with the second. The luxurious merino wool is soft under his fingers as he slides it unhurriedly over strong, lightly-haired calves, letting his nails drag against Draco’s skin and delighting in his quickened breathing.  
  
“Get up,” Harry says, and it comes out as a dry sort of whisper.  
  
“Must I?”  
  
“Yes,” he insists, getting to his feet and holding out both hands.  
  
For a moment, they stare at each other in silence, and then Draco seems to give in, eyes drifting momentarily to the erection pulling at Harry’s boxers and rising with a reluctantly amused smile. Heart pounding now, both at the thought of Draco all dressed up and the unexpected compliance, Harry steps behind him and turns him around to face the full-length mirror.  
  
“Arms out,” he whispers, pressing his lips to Draco’s neck and inhaling the warm scents of citrus and coffee.  
  
Draco stares at him in their reflection and raises his arms, allowing Harry to pull the starched cotton sleeves into place one by one, and then fasten each pearly button with unhurried care. He pulls Draco into another kiss as he fumbles the silver cufflinks into place and then adjusts the wing-tipped collar of the shirt into position.  
  
“I can’t help but feel this is all going the wrong way,” Draco says, resting his hands on Harry’s hips and watching as he frowns and attempts to fasten the black bow tie correctly.  
  
“If I’m trying to tie it backwards… that would make a lot of sense,” Harry mutters, undoing the bow tie and flipping it over before trying again.  
  
Draco laughs softly, the sound sending a shiver rippling over Harry’s skin. “I meant that usually in this sort of situation, you’re trying to take my clothes _off_.”  
  
Harry smiles, meeting his eyes and giving up on the bow tie. It looks sort of debauched-slash-debonair just hanging there, and if anyone can pull that sort of thing off, it’s Draco.  
  
“I don’t usually have a point to prove.”  
  
Draco lifts an eyebrow. “Are you going to start making sense any time soon?”  
  
Harry shrugs and retrieves the waistcoat, slipping it on over Draco’s shirt and buttoning it neatly. When his hand brushes Draco’s hard cock through the fall of soft white cotton, Draco shudders, and it’s all Harry can do not to abandon his plan and tug him down onto the bed there and then. Instead, he reaches for the black brogues and drops into a crouch, helping Draco into them and only for the briefest fraction of a moment lifting his head and taking his hot, heavy cock into his mouth. He groans at the sensation and presses a helpless palm to his own erection, feeling it jump under his fingers as Draco shudders and lets out a soft, surprised moan.  
  
Reluctantly, Harry pulls back. He has to finish what he started, especially now that Draco is wearing almost everything _but_ the sodding kilt. Slowly, he turns to see them in the mirror, mouth turning dry at the sight of Draco, staring right back at him, dressed beautifully down to the waist and up to the knees, where the obscene and beautiful sight of lean, pale thighs and hard, flushed cock shatter the decorous image into fantastic, filthy fragments.  
  
Breathless, Harry gets to his feet and, without a word, helps Draco into his smart black jacket. The kilt itself is more of a challenge; despite being a modern and unfussy style, it still has multiple little leather straps and buttons that Harry’s unsteady fingers slip over time and time again. Every time he looks up at Draco, though, he is watching intently, lip caught in his teeth, and all Harry can do is push on, until finally, sweat-sticky and heavy with arousal, the outfit is complete. He attaches the kilt pin and the sporran as best he can, fastens the belt, and stands behind Draco, chin resting on his starched shoulder.  
  
“There,” he whispers, feeling the word more than hearing it.  
  
Draco says nothing. He just stares at his reflection, and Harry stares, too, because for once in his life he was right, and Draco looks good. Dangerously good, in fact. The Mackenzie tartan sets off his icy colouring perfectly, the blues and greens somehow glowing against the gentle flush in his skin as he stares back at Harry, eyes full of silent need. The clothes hang elegantly on his lean frame, making him look taller and even more commanding than usual, while Harry stands there behind him with his stubbly chin and his terrible posture, his hair sticking up in all directions and his slightly grey boxer shorts with the elastic showing. Not for the first time, he finds himself wondering how he managed to end up with someone as relentlessly fucking stylish as Draco, and then he stops thinking altogether, because Draco is turning in his arms and kissing him fiercely.  
  
“I think I might wear it,” he mumbles, pulling their hips tight together and making them both gasp.  
  
Harry smiles into the kiss. “I hoped you might say that.”  
  
Burying his face in Draco’s neck, he presses closer, revelling in the feeling of the soft, heavy fabric against his bare skin. Impulsively, he pushes Draco back onto the bed and kneels over him, heart racing at the sight of the immaculate outfit in complete disarray, the pale hair dishevelled and the expression of surprise dashed across features usually so controlled.  
  
“What do you want?” Draco asks finally, voice scratchy.  
  
Harry says nothing, just stares down at him as he rises onto his knees and wriggles out of his boxers, kicking them onto the floor. His cock is tight and full against his stomach and he strokes it lazily, stretching out his other hand to push Draco’s kilt up around his hips. Hard and leaking against the brand new tartan, Draco whimpers and swears under his breath when Harry reaches out and wraps a cool hand around him.  
  
“We’re going to make a mess. She’ll have us both killed,” Draco manages, closing his eyes when Harry shuffles closer and takes their cocks in one hand, stroking them steadily together.  
  
“You already made a mess,” Harry whispers, amused. “We’ll clean up later.”  
  
Draco groans and Harry grins, closing his eyes and tipping back his head, allowing the rhythm to rush through his veins and catch him up in sensation, in a surge of heat on a cold day, in the brilliantly erotic thought that he can somehow cause Draco to make a mess of himself by helping him to get dressed. That this, still, is all for him.  
  
“Harry,” Draco whispers, and Harry’s eyes snap open. “Please.”  
  
“ _Accio_ ,” Harry mumbles without looking away from him for a second, and when a small jar flies into his hand, they share a secret smile that promises love and relief and all the words they don’t say.  
  
Harry dips his fingers into the cool, slippery substance and slides them inside himself, rising on his knees and arching his back into the sensation, breathing in the heavy, fragrant scent of cloves and gasping when Draco’s fingers come up to wrap around his cock, stroking slowly but insistently as Harry scrambles to be ready, calming him without the need for words until he is barely moving, stroking his fingers into himself with care, teasing, pushing back against his own hand and aching all over when Draco gasps, “Oh… fuck,” and pulls himself upright.  
  
There are cool fingers sliding under the tatty string around his wrist as he opens his eyes; his mouth brushes Draco’s and he eases himself forward, gripping one black-clad shoulder with a slippery hand as he lowers himself onto Draco’s cock. Slowly, slowly, all the way down, letting out a messy gasp when he forgets to let himself breathe through it. He has never been able to decide whether he prefers fucking Draco or being fucked by Draco, but right in this moment, he wants exactly what he is getting so badly that every fibre of him hurts with it.  
  
Draco’s eyes, hazy and silvery at close range, pin him into place and when he starts to move, it’s just a slow, gentle rock, every breath caught between them, Harry’s hands gripping at Draco’s shoulders, fingers digging into stiff black fabric, Draco’s moving, slicked and warm, over Harry’s cock. They slide together until Harry’s mind is beginning to become unthreaded, and then for a little longer still. Draco rests a hand on his shoulder and smiles breathlessly, seeming to dare him to speed up, to lose control, to fuck himself hard and come all over his no-longer-spotless kilt.  
  
Harry will take that. He loves a dare, even a silent one, and especially one that involves Draco. He leans forward and kisses Draco hard, tasting salt on his top lip and coffee on his tongue. Pulling back, he hangs on tight and picks up the pace, pulling up hard and gasping as he takes Draco’s cock inside him deep and fast, again and again.  
  
Draco lets out a low, cracked sound and then grips Harry’s arse tightly, dragging him down into each thrust and jerking his hips in a helpless rhythm. Fingers still wrapped around Harry, he jerks him feverishly, mumbling beautiful, incoherent words into Harry’s neck until he shudders and comes with a hushed, intense sound that falls somewhere between a laugh and a sob. Frantic and so close, Harry rides him hard, eyes closed and lungs burning, and when he loses himself in a burst of heat and pure relief, he collapses against Draco without a care in the world for his defiled clothes.  
  
When he begins to feel his legs underneath him again, he flops onto the sheets and rests his head on Draco’s chest, pressing his heated face to the cool cotton and listening to the racing heartbeat beneath. The weak winter sunlight is pleasant on his bare skin, and he is just beginning to wonder about a quick nap when Draco pokes him in the ribs.  
  
“What?”  
  
“My kilt is all creased,” he says, sounding rather anxious.  
  
Harry opens one eye. “It’s also covered in—”  
  
“Yes, I know, but I know a spell for that. How do you uncrease a kilt?”  
  
With a sigh, Harry props himself up on one elbow and assesses the damage. “Well, it’s only the flat bit that’s creased, not the pleats, so it should iron out alright,” he says.  
  
Draco looks blank. “What exactly do you mean by that?”  
  
Harry laughs, flopping back onto his pillow and rubbing his eyes. “Well, Mr I-have-Flimby-put-uncreasable-charms-on-a

ll-my-clothes, I suppose you’re about to see something impressive,” he says, wondering if Hermione has still has a steam iron tucked away in her hallway cupboard.

He rolls out of bed, glances at the clock, grimaces, and hurries down the stairs without bothering to put any clothes on. She’s only going to see his face in the fire; it’s not as though she’ll know.

“Harry, please tell me you aren’t naked,” she says a minute or so later, eyes sweeping him with mock-horror as she attempts to unroll enormous curlers from her hair.

“Of course not,” he lies, pointlessly covering his crotch with his hands.

“I can always tell,” she says, and fuck, he hopes that isn’t true. He also hopes that she can’t see him blushing through the fire. “And you’re going to be late,” she adds.

“Yeah… well, hopefully not. I was wondering if I could borrow an iron.”

She frowns. “What on earth for? Don’t you know a flattening charm?”

“Well… yes, but I’m a bit haphazard with it and I don’t want to ruin Draco’s kilt. I used an iron for years with the Dursleys,” he points out. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

Hermione stops pulling at her curlers and stares at him, eyebrows knitted. “Harry… what did you do to Draco’s kilt?”

Despite his best efforts, Harry blushes again, and this time, he is certain that his ever-perceptive friend has noticed his discomfort. She smiles slowly, one corner of her mouth twitching in a clear attempt to hold back laughter.

“It’s not like that,” Harry says quickly, but it’s too late.

Hermione is giggling into her hand, and despite Harry’s embarrassment, the sound is so infectious that he is soon laughing, too. After a moment, another head pops into the fire.

“What’s so funny?” Ron asks, expression hopeful.

“You don’t want to know,” Hermione says.

“I do,” Ron insists, turning appealing eyes on Harry.

“No, you really don’t,” he agrees.

Ron pulls a face but Hermione ignores him. “Please will you bring the iron from the cupboard?”

When Ron only looks puzzled, she mimes pressing clothes and he nods. “Ah, the flatteny thing,” he mumbles before retreating.

“So, the kilt’s a hit?” Hermione says, smirking.

“Oh, bugger off,” Harry says, sticking out his tongue in a not-at-all-immature fashion.

“One flattening device,” Ron announces, reappearing with an enormous nineteen seventies-style iron with the cord cut off.

He passes it through the fire and Harry takes it gratefully.

“The spell’s just written on the handle,” Hermione says. “You’ll want the middle setting for wool. And use the steam.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, leaning forward and hefting the iron against his chest. “I owe you one.”

“Have you got nothing on?” Ron asks as Harry pulls out of the fire-call. “See, Hermione, it’s not just me that…”

Deciding it’s best not to think about the end of that sentence, Harry makes his way upstairs with the iron. He finds Draco in front of the mirror, gazing critically at the kilt, which, though no longer stained, seems to be even more crumpled than before.

“I cleaned it,” Draco says quickly, turning to face Harry. “I cleaned it, so don’t even say a word.”

Harry stares at him for a moment in silence and then shrugs. “I think we both know that’s not going to happen. Did you do something weird?”

“As if I would,” Draco says haughtily, and then he wrinkles his nose. “Well, it should have worked.”

“And why’s that, out of interest?” Harry says, retrieving his wand and casting a protective charm on the floor. “Kilt, please.”

Slowly, Draco unfastens the kilt and hands it to him. “You are incredibly fucking bossy today, Harry Potter.”

“It’s the kilt,” Harry says, smiling to himself as he kneels down beside it and arranges it carefully.

“Maybe I’ll get one,” Draco says, sitting on the end of the bed and watching with interest as Harry spells water into the iron. “Perhaps the residents would find it interesting.”

Harry just smiles and applies Hermione’s charm. The plate heats instantly, and he cautiously presses it to the creased section of kilt with a hiss of steam, holding his breath and letting it out in a rush when the expensive wool does not burn or pucker but merely lies perfectly flat once more. Lifted, he continues, filling the room with the evocative scent of hot, pressed fabric.

“I really am domestically useless,” Draco says, and though his tone is as sardonic as always, something makes Harry look up from his task, and when he does, he sees that Draco’s expression is caught somewhere between irritation and disappointment.

“Is that why you tried?” Harry ventures, holding the iron out of harm’s way. “Because you feel useless?”

Draco just shrugs and fiddles with his pristine cuffs.

“Draco, you are not useless. You run your own treatment centre, for god’s sake. You teach people how to live good lives. That’s amazing. Who cares if you can’t press a shirt or make a casserole?”

“I can’t even make toast,” Draco says crossly.

“That’s not true. I love your toast,” Harry insists, hiding a smile. And he does, even though it’s always burnt to within an inch of charcoal, because Draco makes toast for him—just because he wants to—and because no one else has ever used that toaster and managed to produce the same results. Draco is bizarre and unique and he also looks damn good in a kilt.

“And you look damn good in a kilt,” Harry adds, deactivating the iron and running his fingers over the freshly-pressed garment. “Which is pretty much how we ended up in this situation in the first place, so…”

“You don’t look bad ironing a kilt,” Draco says, sounding happier already as he runs an appreciative eye over Harry’s naked body.

“Have you seen the time?” Harry asks, as sternly as he can manage.

“Fuck,” Draco mutters, leaping up and shedding his clothes all over the floor before racing for the shower.

It is almost eleven thirty by the time they have showered (separately) and dressed, and as Draco stands in front of the mirror fiddling with his hair, Harry can’t help the feeling that they are going to be late despite their organised start to the day, and that if they are, Cecile is going to have them stuffed and mounted.

“Do you know that the underwear drawer is empty?” Draco asks.

“Erm… no.” Harry joins him at the drawer in question and stares into it. “Huh.”

“Harry, I cannot go to a wedding without any underwear. Especially not in this,” Draco says, indicating the kilt and staring at Harry as though expecting him to conjure a pair of boxer shorts out of nowhere.

Which he could, he supposes, but he thinks he might have had a better idea.

“Of course you can,” he says brightly. “Don’t you know what they say about a _true_ Scotsman?”

Draco lifts an eyebrow. “No?”

“He never wears anything under his kilt.”

Intrigued, Draco stares at him. “Really?”

“You don't believe me?”

Draco sighs. “Of course I believe you. You're a woeful liar.”

“As always, Draco, thank you,” Harry laughs. “So, you know… we could find some underwear… or we could be…”

“True Scotsmen,” Draco says, frowning and making an interesting attempt at a Highland accent.

Harry nods and kisses him, adjusting his lapels. “Shall we go?”

Draco nods and then beams, holding up a finger and striding over to his bedside table, from which he retrieves two shiny objects.

“We almost forgot our primitive weapons,” he says, sliding the dagger from its sheath, inspecting it, and then securing it in his sock.

Amused, Harry does the same. “No stabbing. Even if Jonquil stands on your foot.”

Draco gives him a somewhat theatrical look. “I shouldn’t be surprised about the lack of underwear, you know,” he says, holding out his arm for their Side-Along Apparation to the wedding venue. “A lot of purebloods used to be the same way. When I was little, my grandfather…”

“Do I want to hear this?” Harry asks mildly as they find themselves in the grounds of a small castle that overlooks a glimmering lake.

“I didn’t want to see it, but I didn’t get a choice,” Draco points out. “It was a very windy day.”

“It's a windy day today,” Harry says, and a gust of cold air ruffles briskly through his hair as if to illustrate his point.

Looking somewhat alarmed as the same fierce gust whisks up between his legs, Draco retrieves his wand from the inside pocket of his jacket and casts a swift but effective weighting charm on each of their kilts in turn. Amused, Harry takes a moment to adjust to the sensation and then follows Draco up the stony path and into the castle.

The place is filling up quickly and they have to fight their way through hordes of strangers in suits and dress robes and outrageous hats to find the corridor, lined with flickering torches and suits of armour, to which Cecile's instructions have directed them. From there, it is just a matter of following the clamour of female voices to a room with a heavy wooden door and a vast brass knocker in the shape of creature which seems to be part lion and part eagle.

“Look,” Harry whispers, elbowing Draco as they wait after knocking. “A griffin-door.”

“Please do not allow yourself to think for a moment that you are the first person to make that 'joke', young man,” sighs a stoutly-built blonde lady in blue dress robes as she pulls open the door.

Cecile's mother, Harry thinks with a vague sense of panic. He finds himself standing up a little straighter, and, to his silent amusement, he can feel Draco doing the same beside him.

“It was me,” Cecile calls from the other side of the room, where all three of her sisters are fussing around her. “I was the first and you won't be the last, Harry. Mum's just cross she didn't think of it.”

“I am not cross, Cecile, I am merely worried that we are not going to get you down the aisle at the appointed time,” Mrs Mackenzie sniffs, finally stepping back to allow Harry and Draco into the room. “Marielle, leave her hair alone now... and you two are terribly late,” she adds, turning sharp eyes on Harry, as if the whole thing is his fault. Which it probably is. He could have always chosen a different way to persuade Draco into his kilt, but then...

“They're not late,” Cecile sighs, slapping a wand into her sister's hand at her silent request. “I told them to come just in time for the ceremony. Somehow I had the feeling that neither of them would be very useful when it came to making my hair look presentable. No offence, guys.”

“None taken,” Harry mumbles, attempting to ignore Draco's barely-concealed wounded expression.

“Well,” Mrs Mackenzie says crossly, “they shouldn't be here, anyway. They should be on Terry's side. They're _men._ ”

Cecile snorts and one of the sisters—they all look so alike—meets Harry's eyes and wrinkles her nose in sympathy. They all seem like nice girls, he thinks, all with interesting and high-powered careers. The middle sister—Aimee, he thinks—is a curse designer, which he had been almost disappointed to discover is concerned with top-level security rather than any kind of sophisticated criminal lifestyle. He thinks that she is the one who is exchanging eyerolls with him right now, but it's so difficult to tell. All four girls take after their mother with their fair colouring and green eyes, and their father, dynamic though he may be, is a small, slender man. God knows where in the gene pool Jonquil sprung from, with his rugby player's physique and enormous bristly beard.

“Jonquil is a man. He's been in here loads,” Cecile says, dragging Harry's attention back to her.

“Yes, and where is he now?” Mrs Mackenzie demands, looking sharply between Harry and Draco as though one of them might have somehow managed to conceal her giant of a son about their person.

“Probably smoking his pipe out the back,” says another sister, glancing up from smoothing down Cecile's dress just in time to see her mother sigh and stalk out of the room in a rustle of fabric and a swish of floral perfume.

“I thought he'd given that up?” Cecile says, frowning.

“He has, but I thought you needed a break,” her sister grins.

Cecile smiles, too, and as she lets out a long, relieved breath, so does everyone else in the room.

“Gen, have you still got that honey vodka?” she asks, leaning against the wall, and her sister nods and rummages in her bag, finally producing a small silver hip flask. Cecile takes a drink and then shivers. “I'm not nervous,” she says, a little too quickly.

“Slytherins do not get nervous,” Draco says, and Cecile laughs.

“That's right. You two look incredibly fucking dashing, by the way,” she says, motioning for them to turn around and producing a loud wolf whistle that makes the back of Harry's neck turn hot.

“Shh,” whispers the sister with the hair-curling charm. “Do you want Mum to come back?”

“No,” Cecile mumbles. “I think I'd be calmer if she stayed outside for the whole thing.”

“Has it been that bad?” Draco asks.

Genevieve nods emphatically behind Cecile, who doesn't seem to notice.

“It's just because I'm the first to get married, I think. She wants everything to be perfect and traditional, and what she doesn't seem to realise is that I am neither of those things. And neither is Terry.”

“She didn't come around to the teaspoons?” Harry asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

“Not really,” Cecile says, but then she smiles. “But I overruled her.”

At her silent gesture, Aimee, Marielle and Genevieve turn around and display the ornate silver teaspoons tucked into their elaborate hairstyles. Each one is different, polished to gleaming and quite beautiful, and the sight of them makes Harry's mouth tug into a genuine smile. Terry hasn't asked for much. All he's ever really cared about is that he's getting married to Cecile. He has happily given his blessing to the Scottish theme, the castle, his bride's attendants outnumbering his own. He has, in Harry's opinion, been an absolute saint when it has come to Mrs Mackenzie and her 'ideas' for the last year or so. The only thing he's suggested is that he gets to show off some of his beloved antique spoons, and if he's going to have that, well, Harry thinks Mrs Mackenzie can just suck it.

“There's a surprise for him at the reception,” Cecile says conspiratorially. “Jonquil managed to get hold of a huge box of teaspoons his restaurant was going to throw out—we made them into napkin rings for people to take home—you know, like favours.”

“ _Donum memores nostra liberalitas_ ,” add all three sisters at once and then burst into giggles.

“I think you'll find that's a little more archaic pureblood crap for your collection,” Draco says, leaning in and brushing warm breath against Harry's ear.

Harry smiles and Cecile beams at him. Finally, her sister stops fussing with her hair and releases her, and she steps out into the middle of the room as if presenting herself for inspection. Harry has never pretended to know anything about style, but he knows that his friend looks beautiful. Her usually-scraped back and straggly hair has been tamed into loose, dark blonde waves, her pale skin glows in the light from the tall, narrow windows, and her dress, falling just below her knees and made of rough silvery silk, goes perfectly with her... horrible canvas pumps with the rubber soles that she wears every day at St Mungo's.

Harry frowns, puzzled, but Draco is way ahead of him.

“You cannot get married in those shoes,” he says, fixing her with a stern look.

She blinks, muddy green eyes full of innocence that doesn't fool Harry for one moment.

“Why not, Draco?”

“Because they are... vile,” he says, forehead creasing in consternation. “Because... I did not spend half the morning putting this... thing on—twice!--only for you to waltz up the aisle in shoes that look as though they could walk up there on their own!”

Amused, Harry reaches for his hand, but finds himself grasping empty air. Draco is raking his fingers through his hair and staring at Cecile as though she is quite mad.

“Twice?” she asks, mouth twitching at the corners.

Harry closes his eyes. At least one of the sisters is trying not to laugh, but it's not Cecile, because she is most definitely laughing now, the sound reverberating around the little room and filling Harry's head with heat and embarrassment and the urge to kick Draco quite hard.

Slowly, he opens his eyes. “All of you, bugger off,” he says with as much dignity as he can muster. “It's all your fault, anyway, you and your kilts.”

“Funny, that's just what Hermione said this morning,” Cecile tells him, just as the bell in the tower way above them begins to chime for midday.

Harry groans. Fortunately, he doesn't have much time to be embarrassed, as Mrs MacKenzie is soon bursting back into the room with a startled-looking Jonquil at her heels. When she prods him with a manicured finger, he produces a wide sash of the blue and green family tartan, which Cecile's sisters wrap neatly around her waist and tie at the back with swift, practised movements.

In expectant silence, the whole party proceeds towards the main chamber, where Terry and the guests are waiting. As they wait for their cue, Mrs Mackenzie seems to notice Cecile's shoes at last and her face turns a nasty shade of grey.

“Cecile,” she hisses, “what have you got on your feet?”

“Oh.” Cecile shrugs, glancing down at her tattered shoes. “These? They're my 'something old'.”

“What do you mean, something old?” Mrs Mackenzie whispers, and for the first time since they met, Harry feels a little bit sorry for her. Still, it doesn't stop him from glancing at Draco and exchanging with him a look of quiet glee.

“It's a Muggle tradition,” Cecile says nonchalantly, inspecting her bouquet.

“Muggle?” her mother asks, face draining of all colour now.

Behind her, all three sisters are wearing matching expressions of suppressed amusement.

Cecile nods. “Yeah,” she whispers as the music starts up. “When Terry and I are married, we're going to live as Muggles. We're giving up Healing and we're going to be taxi drivers. In London. Of course, I'll have to learn a Cockney accent, but I don't think it'll be too much trouble if...”

Cecile trails off as one of her sisters, Harry thinks Marielle, loses control and lets out a great snort of laughter. The other two are only moments behind, and Harry hardly even feels guilty when he chances a glance at Draco and they join in, too.

“Cecile... I don't know what to do with you,” Mrs Mackenzie says, shaking her head.

She really does look genuinely confused, but the colour is beginning to return to her cheeks, and when her daughter reaches over and hugs her, she smiles and holds on tightly. When she lets go, a rebellious tear rolls down her face and she wipes it away.

“Don't worry, Mum,” Cecile says, beaming. “It's all going to be fine.”

With that, she pulls her wand out of her bouquet and spells her old pumps into a shining pair of flat but elegant silver dress shoes, just in time for the towering doors to swing open and the assembled guests to turn in their seats to see the bride.

“You look beautiful,” Harry whispers as she prepares to step into the light-filled chamber, and she turns around and grins at him.

“So do you. Both of you. Now shush, I have to get married.”

As the music swells around them, they proceed slowly down the aisle, new shoes clicking against the weathered stone. Cecile takes the lead, arm in arm with her mother, walking towards her father, who is grinning uncontrollably beside Terry, and the groom's attendants, Eloise, her partner, Marcus, and his childhood friend, Anthony. Her sisters, in their soft green dresses, follow in single file, and Harry and Draco bring up the rear.

The air in the chamber tastes cool and sweet, and Harry realises that the vast, round window in the side of the castle contains no glass. He can just about detect the glimmer of spells used to keep out the cold and the wind, but the effect is breathtaking. He can hear the whisper of the lake and feel the sunlit countryside as though he is out in the middle of it, and the pure white candles and garlands of ice flowers add an ethereal, wintry edge to the scene that makes Harry feel quite unreal. Somehow, though, today couldn't be more real. Two of his good friends are getting married, and so many people that he cares about are here to witness it.

At the top of the aisle, Cecile hugs her mother and father and then joins Terry and the officiant in front of the round window. Everyone but Anthony and Marielle steps back to flank them as they prepare to take their vows, and Harry casts his eyes out over the rows of guests. There are Ron and Hermione, squashed into the corner of a bench by several members of Cecile's enormous family but looking delighted to be present; Kelly, in the fifth row, purple-streaked hair standing out easily in a sea of blond, and with her, a whole group of nurses who have become friends to the happy couple over the years.

Healer Aquiline, too, is present, dressed in her usual black and looking around at her fellow guests with sharp-eyed interest. Just behind her, Narcissa and Clive are sitting, beautifully straight-backed, and conducting a very hushed conversation as they gaze over at Draco in his Scottish finery. Harry smiles, knowing that at one time, Narcissa would never have been persuaded to leave the Manor for the wedding of a friend of her son's, and his eyes linger on them for a moment as he silently addresses his gratitude to whomever may be listening, for change, for progress, for his strange little family.

As the lyrical, ancient words are spoken and repeated, Harry turns his attention to the parents, huddled together in the front row. Mrs Mackenzie, for all her fretting and bossiness, is now sniffling into a handkerchief while Mr Mackenzie pats her on the shoulder and continues to look as though he might burst with happiness. Mr and Mrs Boot, though more contained, grip tightly onto one another's hands and stare up at their son and new daughter-in-law with glowing pride.

 

“I promise,” Cecile says, voice ringing out clearly and eyes bright with tears that Harry knows better than to ever mention, “for all time and for all times, for this and the next, for you and for all that you will become.”

“For all that is ours,” Terry says, repeating the words with care and never taking his eyes from Cecile. “For sorrow and strength, for silence and laughter, for you, and all that I can give you.”

Harry inhales slowly, dragging in the wild scent of the outdoors and letting the warm promises of his friends wash over him in gentle waves. When Draco reaches out and laces their fingers together, he smiles and holds on tight, startled when his subconscious leaps in and provides an image of the two of them standing where Cecile and Terry are now, exchanging rings and promises and overwhelmed glances.

Giving himself a mental shake, he glances around at Draco, only to find him gazing calmly back, a small smile flickering around the corners of his mouth. Harry turns around, feeling somewhat unsettled, but Draco doesn't let go of his hand until the vows are over and the officiant pronounces Terry and Cecile husband and wife, at which point, an enormous cheer and storm of clapping breaks out among the guests.

Before long, everyone is abandoning their seats to come up and congratulate the newly married couple, and the formality of the occasion descends into happy chaos. Someone presses a glass of champagne into Harry's hand and he finds himself jostled along into a gaggle of expensively-dressed old ladies who seem delighted to have caught him and spend the next thirty minutes or so drowning him in compliments about his outfit, his lovely green eyes, his strong shoulders and his choice of career.

“Ooh, he's a Healer, Reenie,” purrs a lady with a pink rinse and a gleaming string of pearls. “You know what that means, don't you?”

“Eels?” croaks the lady called Reenie, plugging in a tortoiseshell ear trumpet and patting Harry's hand. “What do you want to look after eels for?”

“No, a HEALER,” bellows one of the others. “He works at the hospital!”

“Eels are terribly slimy,” Reenie says sagely.

“Sorry about her,” says the first lady. “She won't admit that she needs a spell for her hearing.”

“It's alright,” Harry says, smiling at her and looking around for Draco.

“Earring?” Reenie asks, frowning. “Have you got an earring? That's very modern.”

Harry hides his laughter behind his hand. Finally he catches sight of Draco, right at the other side of the chamber. He is drinking orange juice from a champagne flute and seems to be involved in conversation with Jonquil, who is towering over him and necking glass after glass of champagne with violent flicks of the wrist. Harry doubts he even has time to taste it, which is a shame, because it's delicious, and probably very, very expensive.

He is just wondering if he should attempt to rescue Draco when someone, with the help of a _Sonorous_ charm, announces that the photographer would like everyone to start moving out into the grounds.

“What was that?” Reenie asks, waving her ear trumpet around.

“PHOTOGRAPHS!” yells one of her friends, and several people turn around in surprise.

“Yes, we heard,” says a tall man, sounding rather irritable for a person holding a glass of champagne and a little fancy biscuit with smoked salmon on it.

Harry opens his mouth to explain but is cut off by the lady with the pink rinse, who steps forward and seizes the man by the wrist.

“Don't speak to me like that, Wallace Mackenzie-Croft,” she says severely. “I've known your mother since you were in nappies! You aren't too old to go over my knee, you know.”

Harry watches with interest as the man visibly wilts into his champagne. “Er... sorry, Auntie Senga,” he mumbles, and in the flurry of enquiries that follows, Harry makes his escape.

Outside, he finds Draco looking out over the lake as the harassed photographer tries to get all four Mackenzie girls to look at him at the same time. As Harry joins him, a savage gust of wind blows his greeting back down his throat.

“Bit breezy,” he manages after a moment, and Draco nods, pushing his windswept hair out of his eyes.

“Aren't you glad your kilt is weighted down?”

Harry grins and looks down at his kilt, which, despite the wind, is hanging obediently against his knees.

“Yes. You're very impressive,” he admits. “And I have to say, you look quite--”

“Good grief,” Draco interrupts, staring wide-eyed at something over Harry's shoulder.

He turns. “Well. That can happen,” he says faintly.

“It can,” Draco says, mouth twisting into a smirk. “Looks like Jonquil is not a true Scotsman.”

 

Harry hides his laughter in Draco's shoulder. “Apparently not.”

In the middle of the lawn, Jonquil is standing absolutely still, apparently in shock as the wind whips his kilt up around his waist, revealing heavily muscled thighs and a pair of bright orange Chudley Cannons boxer shorts. The massive man's face is the colour of a ripe tomato, and his plight only seems worsened by the fact that everyone, from Reenie and her friends to the photographer, is gaping at him in complete silence.

Across the lawn, Cecile catches Harry's eye and he wonders if she is actually expecting him to be the one to rescue her brother. Slowly, he shakes his head, and she makes a face. When, at last, the wind drops and reinstates Jonquil's modesty, the silence continues, and Harry begins to fear that it will never be broken, until there is a loud cry of, “Go Cannons!” and Ron is striding across the lawn and clapping Jonquil on his massive shoulder.

“Er... yeah! Go Cannons!” he shouts, pumping his fist and turning to Ron with an expression of incredible gratitude.

Slowly, the guests return to their conversations and the photographer resumes his work. Harry picks out Hermione in the crowd and she smiles at him, looking both amused and proud. He can't blame her—Ron's probably just made a friend for life.

“I'm fed up of this thing already! Who wants it?” Cecile cries, to a chorus of horrified female voices.

Harry doesn't turn to look this time. He's not getting involved.

“Cecile don't... it's not time,” one of the Mackenzie girls protests.

Harry still isn't getting involved.

“That was rather diplomatic for Ronald,” Draco says thoughtfully.

“Cecile!”

Really, it has nothing to do with him. He's done his bit. He's wearing the kilt. He's...

“What the actual fuck...?” Draco gasps, turning as something large and fragrant comes flying through the air at him. Instinctively, he shoots out a hand and catches it.

Immediately, an enormous cheer erupts from the crowd.

It takes Harry a fraction of a second longer than it should to realise what has just happened, and when it does dawn on him, all he can do is stare down at the bouquet in Draco's hand and then up at his bewildered expression.

“You'll have to make an honest man of him now!” Cecile bellows across the lawn, and beside her, Terry laughs.

“Yep, I'm pretty sure catching the bouquet counts as a binding contract.”

“What's happening?” Reenie demands, pointing her ear trumpet at Harry.

“A Healer's appointment! For you! On Monday!” shouts the lady with the pink rinse.

Finally meeting Draco's eyes, Harry smiles uncertainly. “Now what?”

Draco inspects a particularly large lily and shrugs. “Don't worry. I'm not in the habit of letting flowers tell me what to do,” he says, but there's a warmth in his eyes that makes Harry's breath catch in his chest.

With no idea what to say, Harry just grabs him by his lapels and kisses him. Draco laughs softly against his lips and kisses back, holding the heavy bouquet against Harry as they fall together, just for a moment, sun on their skin and cold breeze ruffling their hair. When Cecile yells for them to come and have their pictures taken, they draw apart and crunch back across the grass to their friends.

Draco hits Harry with the bouquet and then returns it to Cecile, who takes it reluctantly and drags them both in front of the camera.

“Say 'Quidditch'!” the photographer instructs, and then the flash is bright in their faces and Harry is blinking and laughing as Cecile stands on his foot and Draco catches his eye over the top of her head.

He's not afraid. He's wearing a kilt without any underwear.

**~*~**

_Còmhla_ is 'together' in Scottish Gaelic.

_Donum memores nostra liberalitas_ is [roughly] 'a gift to remember our generosity'.


End file.
